Ai! Pedrito!: When Intelligence Goes Wrong

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Yaquita and Smith thundered across the plain, side by side, dodging hummocks of grass. They neared a treacherous ravine cut by a river at the edge of the cloud forest. The horses showed no sign of slowing. Behind them the main cavalry force held glinting sabers and pistols high as they fanned out to keep their victims from turning aside. Smith saw they were trapped, and Yaquita seemed to be paying no attention to their danger.

  "Charge!" Xavier yelled. The squat sergeant kicked his mount in the sides, but the nag could barely stumble ahead under its burden.

  Smith looked back, then faced ahead toward the ravine, a split in the escarpment with wooded slopes on both sides. Tall eucalyptus trees covered the slopes, muffled by thick shrubs around their bases. What would Admiral Nelson have done in a case like this?

  Clutching the saddle with white-knuckled hands, he saw the sack of firecrackers dangling on the pommel, and he realized it definitely wasn't Bonita's cosmetics bag. Then he snapped his fingers. In one instance, he remembered Nelson had won a victory by pouring oil on the water and setting fire to it. He could do something similar here.

  Yaquita took the lead as the horses reached the ravine. Smith rode into the thick bushes, refusing to let his stallion turn aside. Riding flat out, he threw the bag of firecrackers behind a bush, and it snagged on a thorny branch. "Bull's-eye!" He laughed aloud.

  The cavalry was two hundred yards away and coming fast, shooting their pistols in the air, waving their sabers like machetes. "Don't let them hide in the bushes!" Xavier bellowed. "Trap them in the ravine! We'll run them off the cliff."

  Smith wheeled his stallion and fumbled in the saddlebag. "I know I put it in here." He and Bonita had just been out that afternoon for a bit of target practice. With a shout of delight, he pulled out one of the bizarre high-tech laser pistols he had found in the suitcase's secret compartment.

  Yaquita pulled up just beyond him on the steep edge of the ravine. "A pistol? You can't pick them off. They're too many!" she cried. "Even the great Pedrito Miraflores could not shoot them all one at a time!"

  "I'm not Pedrito," he said again, knowing it v/as a lost cause. She would just be worried that his amnesia or his brain damage had returned. As the two horses picked their way down the rugged slope. Smith tried to aim the laser pistol despite his cavorting mount. The nozzle-tipped barrel danced around from his target.

  Smith fired the laser pistol at the bush. The grip throbbed in his hand; the weapon thrummed. A scarlet laser streak slashed into the bag of firecrackers. The black sack glowed, then firecrackers exploded just as the cavalrymen thundered into the bushes.

  The squat sergeant looked up in dismay, covering his head and dropping his saber. "Ambuscade!" He hauled frantically on his reins. The nag screeched to a halt, nearly collapsing from the weight.

  Tiny explosions went off with flashes of light, one after another, like machine-gun fire. The whole troop wheeled in terror.

  "Ambush! Ambush!" the CIA soldiers cried. "Pedrito's men! They'll kill us all!"

  Captain Xavier stood in his stirrups. "Come back, you cowards!" Then his horse also turned and ran, knocking him back heavily in his saddle. "Oh, hell." He grabbed the reins to keep himself mounted. "The boss isn't going to like this."

  Smith and Yaquita raced down the ravine, far from the fading crackle of tiny explosions.

  "Well," Xavier sighed in exasperation as he watched the fugitives race away. He used the sergeant's infrared field glasses to watch as they reached a line of trees. "The CIA didn't bribe me with very much anyway."

  At the office and tearoom of the official U.S. ambassador to Colodor, a jowly, sallow-faced man sat at his desk, tapping his fingers on the newest page in his day planner.

  O'Halloran, across fi-om him, clutched the radio he had just yanked out of his pocket. He half rose fi-om his seat and stared at the jowly man. "Mr. Ambassador! Captain Xavier just called m. I think we've caught up with that goddamned Pedrito!"

  "Oh, dear! I thought Pedrito was out of the country," the ambassador said, firightened. He flipped to the previous page in his day planner and scribbled hurriedly. Did NOT meet with O'Halloran. "Please don't involve me in spy matters. It's against protocol for me to know anything about them! Plausible deniability, you know." Then he scribbled. Do not even know who O'Halloran IS!

  O'Halloran hunched over the radio microphone and tried to be secretive out of long force of habit. "Maintain security in your open transmissions. Agent 234.996. Now tell me, did you kill the bastard? When can I come look at his corpse?"

  "Oh, you mean Pedrito?" Xavier said hesitantly.

  "You know goddamned well I mean that goddamned Pedrito!" O'Halloran snarled. The trim cavalry officer held the radio away from his ear, wincing at the storm of words.

  "Uh, just checking." Xavier swallowed. "Pedrito was heading for the Rio Meta with his latest lady friend ... but... well, I guess he kind of just. . . well . . . got away. We were ambushed by his men—a whole army. A firestorm of bullets—we barely escaped alive."

  The radio speaker hissed sparks at him, unable to contain the CIA man's undisguised roar of fury.

  "I guess I just got fired," Xavier mused, glancing at his watch. "I wonder if that Russian colonel will pay better?"

  In the ambassador's office and tearoom, the jowly man cowered as O'Halloran went on a tirade. "Oh, dear," the ambassador said, "If Pedrito Miraflores got away, should I burn my secret papers?" He covered his ears to keep from hearing the details of O'Halloran's interchange on the radio.

  The CIA man threw the radio to the floor and stomped it into fragments with his left boot. He scowled at the tangle of broken plastic and twisted wires. Then he grabbed a requisition form from the top of the ambassador's desk and began filling out the blanks, requesting a replacement walkie-talkie, Priority One.

  O'Halloran ground his teeth, glaring at his ruined radio before he looked up at the ambassador. "This is a national crisis! I need you to authorize a half-a-million-dollar price on Pedrito's head—and a new radio for me. Then we can solve this problem once and for all."

  The ambassador shivered at the sheer dollar amount of the reward. "Half a million? But the Colodorans make only fifty cents a day! Why, I should think a thousand dollars would thrill one of these peons!"

  O'Halloran glared at him across the desk, his horrible stare became fixed and purposeful. "I know where Hoffa's body is," the CIA man growled. "Want to join him?"

  The ambassador loosened his collar, suddenly feeling very hot. "Uh, half a million isn't really so much, I guess. I mean it all just comes out of the taxpayers' pockets, right? It's not like we're spending real money." He wrung his little mousy hands. "Yes, anything to serve the national interest!" he offered more forcefully.

  O'Halloran's shade of red began to lessen, and his horrible stare was suddenly averted.

  "Good decision, sir." O'Halloran picked up the ambassador's telephone and contacted his radio operator back in the embassy. "Get me the Meta River Gunboat Patrol! If we can't catch him in the air, on the plains, in the city or in the jungle—then we'll get him on the water."

  Chapter 29

  ON THE SLUGGISH green-brown river, farther down where the ravine widened into a jungle-thickened valley, a gunboat lay against a set of rickety pilings covered with moss and tangled with waterweeds. Banana leaves and long vines drooped toward the water. Bats swooped among the hanging creepers, grasping gnats.

  In the moonlight the gunboat bristled with dark searchlights and a protruding artillery cannon in the bow. On deck, off-duty sailors tossed poisoned breadcrumbs down to a flock of ducks swimming around the pilings.

  Captain Morales stood inside the gunboat's bridge house, yawning as he picked up his radio handset. "Hola, Morales speaking. Si, glad to hear from you, Senor O'Halloran. A fine night for swimming, is it not? The moon is out, and the piranha are not biting." He covered his other ear to hear better as the ducks set up a loud quacking. "Help save my country? Half a million dollars! Por Diosl It'll be my pleasure. An
ything for Colodor."

  Morales burst out the door of the bridge house, shouting, "General quarters! General quarters!"

  The sailors at the deck rail threw the rest of the poisoned breadcrumbs overboard then rushed to their cabins to grab uniforms. Others boiled out of the gunboat's hatches, throwing off lines from the pilings. It had been a long time since they'd been underway on a real mission.

  "The vile bandit Pedrito Miraflores is headed for the indio village," Morales said. "Our boat alone is in a position to stop him! Get going! Our careers rest on our success tonight."

  In a cloud of oily blue smoke, the gunboat roared into motion, lumbering away into the wide and languid river.

  Yaquita and Smith trotted their horses through a dripping tropical forest, far down the ravine from where they had eluded the cavalry. The misty air was spicy with the smell of jungle foliage, perfume-sweet orchids and rare night-blooming plants. The two fugitives were very bedraggled, their horses lathered.

  Smith looked behind them, pleased with himself at how he had eluded the cavalry. He sniffed the air. "I think we're close to the river. A good sailor always knows when there's navigable water nearby."

  Yaquita gestured ahead in sudden alarm. "I see a light ahead, bonfires."

  On the other side of a cleared space in the jungle stood the grass and bamboo huts of an Indian village. A huge smoky bonfire blazed in the center of the village, reflected on the rippling river behind the huts. The orange glow silhouetted a mass of male Indians who stood in a unified threatening posture, spears and blowguns ready for action. One warrior juggled his spear from hand to hand, eager to throw.

  Yaquita kicked her horse to flee, wheeling it about. Smith's stallion, though, bolted straight ahead. He yanked madly at the reins, desperate to stop before he trampled the native warriors. "Whoa! Whoa!" The horse ignored his every effort. Smith winced, his mind filled with visions of Amazon shamans and shrunken heads, curare-tipped darts for instant paralysis, and other unpleasant forms of death.

  The stallion charged into the cleared space by the bonfire as the painted warriors dived from his path. Smith sawed at the reins, but the horse fell over, collapsing with a crash. The natives charged as Smith rolled away from the saddle. He scrambled to his feet, ready to run into whatever shelter the thick jungle could offer.

  But the natives grabbed him and boosted him up. They raised their spears in salute. "Ai! Pedrito!" they shouted with unbounded enthusiasm.

  Smith nearly fainted with relief. "Sure, I'm Pedrito."

  In the grass hut's formal suite. Smith, Yaquita and the village chief sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. His hair was painted red with a rust-colored mud and pigment, and he seemed envious of Smith's natural red hair.

  Taking a moment to freshen up, Yaquita had changed into a khaki jumpsuit. Smith now wore a white shirt and pants and tennis shoes, feeHng much more comfortable. He and Yaquita were both well washed and combed. They ate so hungrily out of gourd bowls that they were in danger of splashing food all over their clean clothes.

  The chief's main wife brought Smith a gourd filled with a foamy drink, and handed it to him with great ceremony. Smith took a drink, tasted alcohol, and drank again, afraid he might offend his host. "Tastes like a light beer," he said. "Is that a house specialty?"

  The chief laughed. "You act as if you never drank my chicha before, Pedrito! Chewed manioc root fermented with saliva. My wife makes the best in the whole village." The chief's wife grinned, showing off her manioc-chewing teeth. "The prettier the woman, the better the chicha."

  Smith's stomach twisted. "Oh ... that's interesting."

  Yaquita took the gourd from him and swigged a drink herself

  One of the chief's sons sat against the curved wall of the hut, stuck one end of a long, thin bow in his mouth, and began humming against the taut string to make an eerie, whining music.

  "Pedrito," the chief said, patting him on the knee. "I know you since you so high." He raised a calloused hand two feet off the floor. "You like son to me. You safe here in our village. We chase off bad men if they come again."

  Meanwhile, outside the hut, Bolo stood minimally disguised as an Indian, his skin painted, his clothes made fi-om beaten bark fiber. He crouched next to the bamboo wall of the chief's hut, listening intently.

  "We can t stay here," Yaquita said to the chief. "We're on an important mission. This isn't a vacation."

  "It was supposed to be a vacation," Smith said miserably. "Now I've been AWOL for a week."

  "Relax, dearest," she said. "I'm sure no one's even noticed you were gone. You have much more important work to do here. We must go upriver and over the Andes."

  Eavesdropping, Bolo smiled secretly, nodding as Yaquita followed her orders. Then he tiptoed away from the hut to vanish into the jungle shadows before he could be discovered.

  "Good stew. Chief." Smith slurped up another mouthful, then scraped the last drops from the bottom of the gourd bowl, "What's in it? Chicken?"

  "Our very best snake," the chief said. "Bushmaster. Most poison removed, only a little left for flavor. Nothing too good for you, Pedrito."

  Smith swallowed hard, looked at the empty bowl and decided not to ask for a second helping. He had only more chicha to wash it down.

  Along the bank of the tropical river, three narrow gray dugouts poked into the water. Lush foliage drooped down, green vines, dangling branches and slender leaves hiding the canoes from casual observers.

  One dugout was full of baggage, including the two saddles Smith and Yaquita had removed from their exhausted horses.

  Indian paddlers pushed the laden canoe into the river current, then jumped into it, swaying to keep the craft from capsizing. Other paddlers launched the middle dugout, in which sat Yaquita, her back upright, her dark eyes flashing.

  Bolo, still disguised as an Indian, clutched a paddle in the stern of the nearest boat. He kept his face averted from Smith.

  Two other paddlers prepared to launch the last dugout just after Smith climbed unsteadily aboard, still queasy from his meal, but the chief held them back. He gave final instructions and spoke his farewells to the redheaded lieutenant, who sat delicately balanced as if sitting on a tightrope. The canoe swayed and rocked with the slightest motion he made.

  The chief swept his arm up the river, knocking low-hanging branches out of his way. "My people take you upriver, Pedrito," the chief said. He looked at Smith very meaningfully. "It is not piranha season, but watch out for crocodiles! Much danger."

  "Maybe the crocodiles better watch out for Pedrito instead!" said the paddler at the bow of the nearest boat. Shrieks of laughter came from the other rowers.

  The chief patted Smith on the arm. "Come back soon, Pedrito. My wife will make more chicha for you."

  Smith turned around to keep watching the shore, but his attention fixed on the aft paddler. Behind his makeup, Bolo wore a bland expression, dressed in ill-fitting Indian clothes.

  "Say, haven't I seen you someplace before?" Smith asked.

  The boat pushed off from the shore, drifting out into the sluggish current. Bolo shook his head, and the canoe swayed from side to side, but somehow the Indians kept it from capsizing. He dug in his paddle, huddling into the shadows. "All Indian look-alike to outsiders," he answered softly.

  "Are you sure?" Smith narrowed his eyes.

  "I got plenty brother," Bolo said in a guttural accent.

  Satisfied, Smith turned around and sat on the damp seat. He waved goodbye to the chief. Despite the wobbly, unstable nature of the canoe, he felt much safer out on the water, being a Navy man.

  Captain Morales stood on the gunboat just beside his bow cannon. Pressing the field glasses against his eyes, he swept the river ahead, patiently searching for their prey. Other Colodoran sailors stood along the deck rails, holding their rifles ready, keeping their eyes peeled and their attention turned toward the jungle-thick river banks, though they could see nothing in the night.

  "Wait for it," Morales said. "Sooner
or later we'll bump into them."

  The three dugouts glided leisurely under the silvery moonlight like long blades in the river water. Smith's and Yaquita's canoes traveled side by side. Smith supposed the situation might have appeared quite romantic; Yaquita certainly seemed to think so.

  Perfectly balanced, she leaned back on her narrow seat and strummed her guitar, playing a gentle melody that whispered like honey across the water. She hummed for a few bars, and then began to sing.

  Hubbard & Anderson

  He bravely looked at the firing squad.

  And when the rifles spoke,

  It was a call to all the proletariat

  To throw off the tyrant's yoke!

  "Hey, that's too sad for a night like this." Smith reached across the water to pull her dugout closer. They nearly capsized, but the Indians struggled with their paddles to keep them upright. "Give me that guitar. Let me try it."

  Yaquita smiled broadly and handed the guitar across to him. "Oh, Pedrito—you have never serenaded me before."

  "There's always a first time for everything."

  She batted her eyelashes and leaned forward to listen. "Is it a song about me? About undying love?"

  But as Smith fiddled with the strings, twisting the pegs to tune it, the guitar crackled alive with a radio voice that came from an internal speaker. "Roger-Echo-Dog Eighteen," the Cuban colonel Enrique's voice said. "Warning, warning! Patrol boat coming upriver. Revolutionary force, you must elude it. Out."

  Smith stared at the instrument, hesitantly plucked a string, then stopped the vibration with his fingers. He handed the guitar back across the water to Yaquita. "I've heard of crystal balls, but never a clairvoyant guitar."

  Hearing the message, Yaquita became tense, gazing astern as a shadowy shape headed upriver at high speed. "Damn!" she said. "A gunboat."

  "Just like the guitar said. Oh, don't worry," Smith said, cocky. Being Pedrito was starting to go to his head. "Patrol boats are navy—and that's where I shine."